


Wolves Howl in the Hills

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4306506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The window in Spencer's room is never closed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolves Howl in the Hills

The window in Spencer's room is never closed. 

It stays open through the summer, letting in the soft breeze and the nightly heatwaves and the sounds of the city far off in the night. It stays open through storms, rainwater collecting on a towel stuffed against the baseboard. It stays open through the fall, letting in autumn leaves that crackle and snap under Spencer's bare feet in the mornings as he crosses into the bathroom.

Most importantly, it stays open in times of need, letting in tumbling boys with messy hair and too big shorts.

Spencer hears the thump of Ryan's knees hitting the cold, soaked towel on the floor before he wakes up fully, the wet slap of Ryan’s shirt hitting the hardwood. He feels the chill of his blankets lifting up before he opens his eyes. The small arms that wrap around his waist are familiar and freezing, goosepimpled skin against the softness of his stomach. Spencer can smell the damp earthiness of mud sticking to Ryan's clothes. He'll have to wash the sheets in the morning.

He doesn't ask and Ryan doesn't tell. The sharp jut of Ryan's hips against the small of his back is stark, a painful rustle through his chest with each breath, and Spencer stares at the white of his wall, listening to Ryan breathe. Ryan's hand settles flat over Spencer's stomach, cold fingers on his skin, and the shaking slows to a stop.

"You could stay here," Spencer says into the silence. "Mom would let you." Ryan's silent for a long time, his forehead coming forward to rest between Spencer's shoulder blades. It feels slick, with rain or mud or blood Spencer doesn't know. 

"I can't," Ryan finally says. His breath is warm, blowing past the short hairs at the nape of Spencer's neck. Spencer blinks his eyes at the wall, but it doesn't help him to see any better.

"You're going to get really hurt," Spencer says. It feels like knives in his throat, ripping up like bile. Ryan's fingers open and close, a loose fist with rough fingertips. Spencer feels young underneath them, no longer fourteen but ten instead, weak and unable to stop the bullies from shoving Ryan into the trash cans at lunch. 

"I'm fine," Ryan says against Spencer's back. He's warming up, knees to the backs of Spencer's, wet socks drying slowly between Spencer's calves. The smell of mud isn't fading, but the soft, metallic smell of dried blood has come to join it. Spencer's hands clench. He's too small to stop it, too young to have a say.

"You're really not."

It hangs in the air, swept away by the whistle of the breeze that creeps through the window. Spencer shakes loose of Ryan's hold, flipping to his other side. He gathers Ryan to him, ignoring the wetness of his hair, the dampness of his bare chest, and holds him, hands cupped around the razor blade cuts of Ryan's shoulder blades.

There's slick at Ryan's throat, dark and flaking. Spencer presses his mouth to it, tries to kiss it better. It tastes like pennies, copper sour and tart. It makes a low anger build in his stomach, creeping sick and vicious through his veins. He wants to fix it.

"You can't," Ryan says. He's always lived inside Spencer's head, and now is no different. Spencer closes his eyes, grits his teeth. It's truth, but there's no room for truth in young hearts. "Just. Be here." Ryan squirms back, big eyes and split lip and wet curls of hair against his cheeks. He looks over Spencer's face, eyebrows dipped together in the middle, before leaning in.

His mouth is warm and damp against Spencer's, his lips chapped, the cut catching across the edges of Spencer's mouth. His fingers press into the skin at Spencer's back, pressure points that feel like fire, and Spencer kisses him back helplessly. He tastes blood and dirt, the softness of Ryan lost under it.

Ryan's legs are curled around his, skinny calves locked around Spencer's, and he pulls him closer, presses the hollow of his knees against the thickness of Spencer's thighs. It lines them up, chest to tummy to toes, Ryan's chilled skin soft against Spencer's. 

"Ryan-"

"Don't." Ryan's voice is low, a whisper of a sound against Spencer's throat. He looks young; a porcelain doll in shades of pink and blue and red. He flicks his tongue over the sore spot on his lip and leans in again. 

Spencer should stop this. He's not sure what's going on, of why Ryan's eyes are staying firmly shut against him, but he's never been able to say no to Ryan, and now isn't going to be the time that that changes. Ryan presses a chilly hand to Spencer's cheek, thumb to the hollow under his eye, and soothes his tongue over the split between Spencer's lips.

It's strange and wet, and the angry swell in Spencer's stomach shifts slowly into something else. Something sad and heavy, and he pulls back, blinking into the darkness until he can see the scar on Ryan’s chin, the block of stubble that he always misses right under his jaw. 

“We need to do something-“

Two of Ryan’s fingers slide into his mouth, dirty and rough, and press down on his tongue. Spencer stops trying to talk, staring at the rise of Ryan’s wrist so close to his face. The pads of Ryan’s fingertips feel like sandpaper, the whorls of his fingerprints individual and sharp. Spencer narrows his eyes, but Ryan doesn’t move them away.

“You don’t get to talk,” Ryan says, pressing his knee between Spencer’s thighs. He shoves until he can roll on top of him, nails scratching against the roof of Spencer’s mouth. He looks frazzled, hair drying in messy spikes, face gone pale. “You don’t get to tell me that your mom loves me or that I could be here like you if I wanted to be.”

Spencer tries to spit Ryan’s fingers out, but Ryan shoves them in further. It makes Spencer gag, bile rising up the back of his throat. Ryan’s knee hits the bed, presses the mattress in, and Spencer glares. Ryan feels light above him. Barely there at all.

“I don’t want it,” Ryan says. He leans in, bracing himself against Spencer’s chest with a splayed hand. "I don't want your- Your _sympathy_ or your _pity_ or your fucking _life_." The webs of his thumb and ring fingers are pressed to the corners of Spencer's mouth, pulling them apart almost painfully, the heel of his palm heavy against Spencer's lower lip.

He shoves his knee up, locking it at the joint of Spencer's thighs, pushing up until it hurts. Spencer wants to bite down on his fingers until he can taste blood, wants to kick him off. The dark smear across Ryan's cheek stops him. He breathes through his nose and tries to shift his hips back.

"I'm sick of people telling me how to run my life," Ryan says, too loud in the silence. His fingers curl, nails scratching against the soft flesh of Spencer's tongue. He slams his free hand down against Spencer's chest, open palm smacking against skin.

It hurts, blunt impact against his sternum, and Spencer gasps around Ryan's finger. Ryan's eyes go wide, dark splotches in the dim light, and he jerks his hands away, toppling backwards.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Fuck. Spencer- I'm." He rolls off the bed and onto his knees, the crack of them hitting the floor sharp like a gunshot. He scrambles up and towards the window. "I have to go."

"It's storming," Spencer rasps. His throat feels hoarse and dry, tight. Ryan looks back over his shoulder and his eyes are still wide. "Don't go."

"I can't be here," Ryan says. He sticks one socked foot on the window sill and braces himself against the wall. "I'm sorry."

In the morning, Spencer collects the damp hoodie and t-shirt from the floor and sets them in the hamper with his own clothes. Then, he very carefully closes the window.


End file.
